Shattered
by WhyAye
Summary: This was inspired by the episode, "The Quality of Mercy," when Hathaway says Mrs. Lewis was hit by the car and died "later." Kind of a downer, but not at the end. New chapters are up now!
1. Chapter 1

_It takes love over gold and mind over matter  
__To do what you do that you must  
__When the things that you hold can fall and be shattered  
__Or run through your fingers like dust  
_- Dire Straits, "_Love Over Gold_"

"Morning, Sir." As usual, Detective Sergeant James Hathaway was already at his desk peering at something on his computer screen when Detective Inspector Robert Lewis came in, cheeks ruddied from the chill, winter-morning air.

"You seem cheery this morning." Lewis switched on his computer.

"I'm just happy to see your amazing face again, as always."

Lewis snorted and began sorting through his inbox. The two sheets on top of the papers caught his immediate attention: duplicate copies of Hathaway's request for leave time over the holidays, submitted last week and now officially approved by Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent.

"I think I've detected the real reason for your joy," Lewis said, handing James the one marked "Employee Copy" and putting the other aside to be filed.

"Oh, you are good, Sir. So good, in fact, you might even be able to get by without me for a few days."

"I wonder if I'll even notice the difference." Lewis dodged the pencil Hathaway lobbed at him. "Oy, now! Assaulting a police officer is a serious offense!" They grinned at each other. "You spending some time at the Hathaway ancestral manor?"

"Oh, yes. The whole extended family gathers for days of holiday revelry. It's loads of fun." Hathaway's tone indicated quite the opposite. "Will you be seeing family at all, Sir?"

"Not this year. Our Lyn has to work straight through until New Year's Day."

Hathaway sobered a bit at the thought of his boss spending the holidays alone. "Don't tell me you plan to work straight through, too?"

"No, I won't be coming in every day. I have me own holiday traditions to observe." Lewis became more serious, too.

"Such as?" Hathaway felt a growing concern.

Lewis looked a bit grim. "Making it through to the other side. It's something I try to manage every year. Just a question of mind over matter."

Hathaway resolved to remember to telephone during his week-long absence. He felt a nagging misgiving about Lewis's "holiday traditions."

At the end of the workday that Friday, they went out for a farewell holiday pint. Dr. Laura Hobson joined them, as usual, and Hathaway was a bit surprised that Lewis also invited D.S. Adrian Kershaw along with the group. James didn't know Kershaw well, but had heard well of him and liked what he had seen of the man. Kershaw, like Hathaway, came from a background of privilege and both men had come in on the fast track. Both also seemed to be languishing a bit, career-wise, as well, James thought. Hathaway and Hobson went to stake out a table in the rather crowded pub while Lewis and Kershaw waited for the barman to fill the glasses.

"You know what's up with Kershaw coming along?" James asked Laura, keeping his voice low.

"I suppose this time of year reminds Lewis of all that Kershaw has done for him. Feels like he owes Kershaw a pint or two."

"What do you mean?"

"He used to be Lewis's bagman, after Lewis made inspector and before he got shipped to the islands. You didn't know that?"

"He never said. He doesn't talk to me about that time." Nor does anyone else, James thought. There was some kind of code of silence about that period. Almost everyone at the station liked Lewis, so James figured Lewis must not have done his finest work after his former boss, Chief Inspector Morse, died, followed two years later by the death of Lewis's wife, Valerie.

"It wasn't easy to be around him then. But Kershaw served him well. Probably better than he deserved, given how badly Lewis was doing his job at the time."

James cocked his head at her, inquiringly.

But she shook her head. "Sorry. It's not my story to tell."

The arrival of the two men with the glasses helped improve the mood again, and soon the group was laughing animatedly at Kershaw's hilarious description of D.I. Knox trying to talk his way out of a traffic ticket. Kershaw worked with D.C.I. Stevens now, and the two got along well, both of them dedicated to doing things by the book.

At last the foursome split up, calling cheery holiday farewells as they headed off through the crisp night in different directions. Hathaway, energized by the cold, was actually looking forward to a whole week off and fairly bounced to his car. He didn't have to be back until after Boxing Day. It would be a welcome break after a rather rugged year. He drove home, singing Christmas carols in Latin as he motored through the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Lewis switched on the hall light as he entered. The house was chilly; he had turned the thermostat down before leaving in the morning and he didn't bother to turn it up now. He knew he wouldn't be feeling the lack of warmth for the next several days.

He drew the curtains, changed into old jeans and a sweatshirt, and hung up his work clothes. Then he set his mobile on the charger, turned off the ringer, and turned off the ringer on his landline as well. Selecting a bottle of brandy from the six identical bottles set on the kitchen counter, he twisted it open and took a long swig directly from it. He shut his eyes against the fire in his throat as he swallowed. He welcomed the heat like an old friend as it began to spread through him.

Going into the front room, he set the cards that had come in the day's post unopened on the table, sank onto the sofa, and began to weep silently. The room was completely devoid of any sign that Christmas was approaching except for a single, crystal star that held a white taper. When Lewis was able to look up again, he lit the taper, and once more drank deeply from the bottle.

"Happy Christmas, bonny lass."

* * *

December 19, 2002, was a Thursday.

Lewis arrived home from work, admiring the job he and his son, Ken, had done with the colored lights around the front window. He could see the tree lights through the window, too, and the whole picture was very festive and cheering.

"Pet, I'm home!" he called as he stomped a bit of snow from his shoes. Looked like it was going to be a white Christmas. Very nice, that.

Ken came into the room. "Hey, Dad. Mum's gone to do some Christmas shopping in London. She tried to phone you earlier but Kershaw said you were away from your desk. Didn't he tell you?"

"That's _Sergeant_ Kershaw to you, mate. I wasn't in the office much today. He could have left a note and I missed it, I s'pose."

"She said she'll call when she's on the train home." He paused. "I already ate, I wasn't sure when you'd be in."

Lewis set about making himself egg and chips. Why bother going all that way just for shopping? Still, she always enjoyed a trip to the big city, and she certainly deserved a day out.

After eating and then tidying up the kitchen, Lewis put a kettle on to boil. He knocked on Ken's door. No answer. Lewis knocked again, more sharply this time.

"Dad! C'mon in! Sorry, had my music on." Ken took off the headphones on one side.

"I'm making some tea, d'you want any?"

"Uhh, no thanks. I'm fine."

Lewis headed back to the kitchen and readied the pot. He didn't mind Ken being home this year, working to earn money so he could afford university when he finally figured out he wanted to study. In fact, Lewis rather missed having his daughter, Lyn, around. She had gone to Manchester to study nursing, and to be near her boyfriend. Lewis suspected they lived together, but he really didn't want to know for sure. She certainly hadn't volunteered the information.

He took his tea into the front room and picked up the book he had been reading for the last few days, a new translation of Aeschylus's _Agamemnon_. Since working with Morse, he struggled to improve his mind with the classics that his childhood education had sorely lacked. He had been raised to think they were stuffy and boring, but blimey! This stuff had sex, murder, insanity . . . it was really pretty amazing reading. That poor Cassandra!

So intently was he reading that he didn't hear the phone's first ring, but the second got through to him and he jumped up to answer. Must be Val telling us she's on her way, he thought.

But it wasn't Val. It was an unfamiliar female voice, asking for him: "May I speak to Mr. Robert Lewis, please?"

"Speaking."

Then came the words that would replay over and over in his head, often without warning, and each time exactly the same:

"This is Sergeant Hunt of the Metropolitan Police. I'm afraid I have bad news for you, sir. There's been an accident."


	3. Chapter 3

"Ken! KEN!" Lewis pounded on Ken's door.

They grabbed their coats and dashed to the car. Lewis put on the siren and light and they sped off into the cold night. Neither spoke a word, except for Ken's terse phone call to Lyn, urging her to get to London as soon as she could. Lewis had gone completely numb, feeling nothing but the necessity of covering the miles between Oxford and Euston Road as quickly as possible. Sgt. Hunt had to be mistaken, she _had_ to be wrong about this. _Seriously injured_? _Condition very grave_? What did that mean, anyway? _Fractured skull_, he knew that one. Seen quite a few, too.

Aided by the siren and flashing blue light, it took them just over an hour to arrive at the Accident & Emergency entrance to University College Hospital. They were escorted immediately to a room with a single bed, equipment quietly humming and beeping alongside.

She was unconscious, oxygen cannula in place, IV in her arm, sensors stuck all over her. Drying blood. Hair shaved off. Purple-black bruises disfiguring her face and arms. She looked like she'd been beaten up. Dropped and shattered.

Both men simply stopped and stared for a moment. It didn't even look like her.

"Valerie!" Her name came as a strangled cry from Lewis's throat. He darted forward and took her hand, squeezing it, but it was perfectly still. "Oh, God, no!"

The doctor had entered the room silently after them. He stepped forward now.

"Mr. Lewis, I'm so sorry about your wife. We're doing all we can, but I'm afraid there's not much . . . She's been sedated now so she can rest. We can bring in a cot for you, if you'd like." The doctor continued to describe her condition, but the words just swirled meaninglessly in his head: _epidural hematoma_,_ subdural hematoma_, _coma_,_ hypoxia_,_ prognosis_ . . .

She was unlikely to ever regain consciousness. Unlikely to survive. Lewis shoved those words out of his head, unwilling to hear them, unwilling to concede they might be true. She was his Valerie. In a moment, she would wake and look at him and give him that smile.

Someone got them both chairs, and they sat on either side of her, not saying anything, each just staring and lost in his own thoughts.

An indeterminate time later, a female Met sergeant came in and approached quietly.

"Mr. Lewis? I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm Sergeant Hunt. I'm in charge of the investigation of the accident and I'm afraid I have to ask you some questions."

He looked at her blankly for a moment. Then his professional instincts clicked in, and he realized what was being said.

"There's an 'investigation'? Are you telling me you don't have the person that did this?" His voice was rising in pitch and volume.

"No, sir," she answered quietly, "not yet. It was hit-and-run, I'm afraid."

He rose to his feet, his eyes blazing. "What are you, incompetent or just slow? There must be CCTV from the shops, and witnesses—Oxford Street this time of evening is full of people. Are you telling me my wife was run down like a bloody rabbit and no one happened to see ANYTHING?" He was shouting now. "Let me handle 'the investigation,' I'll have this sorted right quick."

"Dad, calm down. Not so loud, okay?"

Lewis clenched his teeth together to stop his jaw from trembling. Sgt. Hunt tried to placate him.

"Just let the police handle this, sir, okay?"

"I AM the police." Lewis pulled his badge out and flashed it at her.

She studied it for a second. "I'm really sorry, Inspector. We're doing everything we can at this point." She paused. "Do you want to answer my questions now? The sooner we have the information, the better."

When she left a short time later, she pulled out her phone almost immediately. "Yes, thanks, this is Sergeant Hunt of the Metropolitan Police. I need to speak with the supervising officer of Detective Inspector Robert Lewis." A pause. "No, it's not a disciplinary matter."

Lewis was still holding Val's hand when Lyn arrived from Manchester an hour or so later. He looked up long enough to give her a quick kiss as she bent down. Ken guided her over to a corner of the room and told her what little they knew.

Lewis refused to leave Val's side, having learned his lesson with Morse. It was as if he felt he could keep her alive just by staying with her. Ken and Lyn took turns sitting with him and using the cot brought by the hospital staff. If Lewis slept at all, it was with his head on Val's bed.

The hours stretched into days. In the small, dark hours of December 22, Ken was asleep on the cot and Lyn dozed in the chair on the other side of the bed. Lewis was still sitting next to Val, still holding her hand and staring at her. He'd done this almost nonstop for over two days. She suddenly gave an almost inaudible sigh, and his heart leaped up with hope. But the next thing he heard was the flatline tone of the heart monitor.

She was gone. He had never felt so utterly alone.


	4. Chapter 4

For the next couple of days Lewis was in a trance, making arrangements, just keeping moving. He had the vague idea that if he stopped moving he would just disappear. Somehow, that was what he would have preferred, but he simply could not hold still. Unable to bear being in their bedroom, he decided to sleep on the sofa. Most of the time, sleep did not come anyway.

Christmas came and went, unnoticed.

Lyn had to go back to Manchester after the funeral. At first, she called every night. But after a while, she was sometimes too busy to call. And she found it depressing to try to talk to Lewis, who was unresponsive with nothing to say.

After two weeks, Lewis tried to return to work. Superintendent Winston gave him trivial assignments, and accepted his incomplete, late, and poorly-done work without comment. Winston had been appointed acting Chief Superintendent while a permanent replacement for former Chief Superintendent Strange was sought. Kershaw was assigned to D.I. Knox, to his dismay. But he knew there would be nothing for him to do as Lewis's sergeant. Lewis was not presently fit for detective work.

As one might expect, Lewis's fellow officers kept silent about their troubled colleague, and Dr. Hobson had no idea of the state Lewis was in until Kershaw showed up one day to pick up a report for D.I. Knox.

"Kershaw, you're with Knox now? Who does Lewis have?"

Kershaw looked away, unable to meet her eyes. "He has no one. Winston has him doing donkey work. He can't even handle that, really. But no one wants to just send him home."

Kershaw managed to pilot Lewis to the station's medic, obtaining a prescription for Duponex to help him sleep. The pills did make him sleep, when he thought to take them, but did nothing for the blade of pain stabbing his heart, and he would wake up not at all rested. Lewis soon found that two Duponex would make for eight hours of unbroken oblivion, and a double shot of brandy to wash them down would dull the knife's edge, the two drugs together creating a semblance of sleep.

A week later, Ken left to stay with cousins in Australia. Rather heated words passed between father and son, with each of them feeling abandoned by the other. Now Lewis was totally alone in the house. Laura came by now and then, trying to help ensure that he ate a decent meal occasionally and was remembering to pay the bills. Even though she knew what she would find, each time she couldn't help being shocked at his condition and the vacant feeling of the house. She avoided counting the empty bottles, and avoided lecturing. It would do no good to drive him further away.

At work, Kershaw covered for Lewis often. He alone knew Lewis was drinking during the day, and that Lewis kept a bottle in his desk. Finally, he cornered the man first thing one morning, hoping for sufficient sobriety for his message to get through.

"Sir, I know it's none of my business, but I think Winston suspects you're keeping a bottle here."

Lewis gave him what could pass for a focused look. "So?"

"Well, Sir, I don't want to see you get a suspension, or worse. If you could maybe just cut back on the brandy during the day, like?" As Lewis's look started turning hostile, he continued,

"I'm just trying to keep you from getting in trouble, Sir. If Winston finds out, he'll have to do something."

Fortunately, Lewis was able to see the wisdom in what Kershaw was saying, and he did not replace the bottle when he finished it the next day. He also agreed to tell Kershaw his computer password, and on days when the brandy-Duponex cocktail was extra effective, Kershaw would log Lewis on in the morning to make it look like he was there doing work. He even talked Lewis into giving him his house key once, and Kershaw ran out immediately and had a copy made. This allowed him to check on Lewis over bank holiday weekends when the older man would often be in a complete stupor, verging on being in medical danger. Between Kershaw and Hobson, Lewis was kept alive and functioning for the better part of the year.

In October, D.C.I. Stevens's sergeant transferred to Durham. Kershaw could not pass up the opportunity to apply for the opening; he greatly respected Stevens. But this would mean he would actually be spending his time working, instead of having the big blocks of unoccupied time he experienced working for Knox. Lewis would be on his own.

Kershaw finally approached Winston and confessed what he'd been doing.

"So you've been keeping his arse above water for months now, is that it?" Winston sounded stern, but his look was understanding.

"He's a good cop, Sir. He's just sidelined temporarily, and it seems a shame if he got disciplined when he can't really help what he's going through. I just felt I should help him, as long as I was able."

"He's not much of a cop right now, but he's still a good man." Winston pondered a bit. "I think I know of a way we can keep him on the payroll and maybe give him a change of scenery, too."

Two months later, Lewis was on a plane to the British Virgin Islands, where he would attempt to regain his footing and rejoin the ranks of the sane and sober.

* * *

Hobson's phone buzzed. "Yes?"

"Hi, Laura, it's James."

"Well, happy Christmas Eve. I thought you were off on holiday."

"Yeah, I am. That's why I'm calling you. I just got a call from Lyn Lewis, and she's a bit worried. Tried calling her Dad yesterday and today and can't get through. No answer on either his mobile or his home phone. She has my number in case of emergencies."

"Lyn is calling _here_? I thought he was up there. He always goes to Manchester for the holidays. It wouldn't be safe to leave him alone over Christmas."

"That's just it. He told me he wasn't going this year, Lyn has to work."

Silence.

"Laura?"

"Oh, dear God. Why didn't he tell me he was going to be alone? What is he up to?"

"I'm sure he figured he'd have plenty of ghosts for company."

"You're scaring me James. I absolutely cannot get away, I'm on duty or on call for the next forty-eight hours or so. I'll try Kershaw. Talk to you later."


	5. Chapter 5

Something was pounding, pounding, in Lewis's head. He kept waiting for someone to make it stop. As he clawed his way out of the black pit of his unconsciousness, he finally realized the noise was from someone at the door. Why didn't Val answer it? He tried to call for her but couldn't form the words. Why didn't she make it stop? Where was she?

Then it hit him again with the same gut-kicking force as always. Val was gone. Dead. And he was hopelessly, always, alone.

He tried to lift his head, but nausea swept over him and he vomited brandy and bile onto the floor, then sank back down into the mess.

Kershaw was certain Lewis was inside. Taking a deep breath, he decided emergency measures were required. Out of his pocket he pulled the key almost no one else knew he had, the key he made years earlier. And he was drenched with the same sense of dread he felt back then as he slipped the key into the lock and let himself in. With the curtains all shut, it was quite dark. A sharp stink of sweat, vomit, and brandy assaulted his nose.

"Sir?" He waited. "It's Kershaw, Sir." Nothing. "Are you here?"

As he stepped farther into the room, he heard a kind of gurgling snort from the floor right in front of him.

Kershaw jerked back—he had nearly stepped on Lewis! He knelt down, trying to ascertain in the dark where Lewis's head was and trying _very_ hard not to let the smell get to him.

Concern for his old workmate overcame professionalism. "Robbie? Hey c'mon, answer me. It's gonna be okay. Can you hear me?"

"Krrsh?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's me. Oh, man, what have you been doing? Drinking yourself stupid for four days straight? Just like old times, right?" In the dim light, he saw Lewis's eyes creak open, completely unfocused.

"Kershaw?" —or at least, that was probably what he said.

"Hey, we were getting worried about you. C'mon, let's get you cleaned up."

Lewis struggled to his knees, swaying ominously.

"Whutdayizzit?"

"It's Christmas Eve, Sir."

Lewis's eyes finally found a focus. He glared at Kershaw, then lurched to his feet, falling back into the wall but managing to stay upright.

"Geddout, Sergeant," he slurred. "Geddout, NOW!" He swung at the younger man, nearly losing his tenuous balance.

Kershaw recalled how Lewis's aim had been better the last time they were in this situation and how Lewis had nearly knocked out one of Kershaw's teeth when his fist connected.

"I'll just go over by the door, Sir, okay? You can go ahead and do what you like. I won't bother you any more. Sorry." Kershaw crept quietly over to the front door, and settled down on his haunches. He hated to leave Lewis alone but he didn't want to rouse the man's anger any further.

Lewis slid down the wall to sit on the floor, glowering at Kershaw. Then his eyelids sagged and he canted over until his head and shoulder hit the floor.

Kershaw watched him a while, then finally flipped his phone open and tapped a couple buttons.

"Hi, Laura, it's Kershaw. He's at his house alright. Seriously pissed but still capable of taking a swing at me."

"Are you staying all night?"

"Are you kidding? It's Christmas Eve! He doesn't want me here and I don't really want to be here when he sobers up enough to wonder how I got in. I'd rather he didn't even remember I was here."

"How _did_ you get in?"

Kershaw did not answer that. "I'll check on him again on Boxing Day. That's the soonest I can come back. I don't think he'll get worse, it looks like there's only one bottle left and he's too drunk to find it right now. But he has a right mess to clean up here when he comes out of this."

Laura was far from satisfied, but she was absolutely stuck at work, with nearly everyone else gone for the holiday. After Kershaw rang off, she called Hathaway back. He answered immediately, as if he had been watching his phone.

"Well?"

"He's home, very drunk."

Hathaway exhaled loudly. "You know, I think he planned to be in oblivion for the whole week. He said he expected to take some days off work. Do we just leave him and try not to make any loud noises when we all come back to work?"

She sighed. "I'm concerned about acute alcohol poisoning. If he drinks too much too fast . . ." She paused. "Kershaw doesn't think he'll have much more, given how far gone he is. I'm not so sure."

"You sent Kershaw? How did he get in?"

"You know, I think he has a key. From back when Val died."

"Why would Kershaw have a key to Lewis's house? I surely don't."

"Lewis was pretty much out of his mind with grief all the time, and drunk about half the time. Drinking at work, even." James was silent, surprised. She continued, "Kershaw covered for him like crazy, even though he'd gotten reassigned to D.I. Knox. Got Lewis's password so he could log Lewis in to make it look like he was there working, would drive Lewis's car in, and made a key to his house so he could get things for him and check on him when he was on a bender. I think I was the only person Kershaw told about that, so keep it under your hat."

"I thought you weren't going to tell me about this."

"The stakes have changed a bit since Friday night."

"So, will you be able to look in on him, then?"

She sighed again. "I can't, James. I'm stuck here on a skeleton crew. And I don't have Kershaw's key."

James didn't answer.

"Kershaw will go around the day after tomorrow and check. That's about all we can do, short of breaking the door down."


	6. Chapter 6

Laura's report did not satisfy Hathaway. It was _not_ all they could do. After the Hathaway family Christmas dinner was done, James excused himself from the table and told his mother he had to get back to Oxford, a sudden work emergency had come up.

Mrs. Hathaway frowned at this. She always felt policing was beneath her son's dignity and certainly far beneath his ability as a scholar. Police work was so distasteful, involving filthy people committing unspeakable acts. But James seemed to enjoy it and she knew there were long periods in her son's life when joy was a complete stranger. "I'm glad you could come to dinner, James."

* * *

Hathaway pulled to a stop outside Lewis's home. He hoped the man would be functional enough to let him in voluntarily. Still, he hesitated. Whatever was he going to find here?

He knocked on the door, quietly at first, then more loudly when there was no response. Finally, he tried the knob and, to his surprise, the door opened at his touch. Had Kershaw forgotten to lock it on his way out?

"Sir?" The smell hit him then. Swallowing hard, he entered the place in a bit of a panic. Six empty brandy bottles, one of them broken. Pools of vomit and, based on the smell of the place, probably urine, on the floor. Smears of blood, especially near the broken glass. Panic level rising steeply, Hathaway rushed through the house.

"Sir? Sir?"

The house was empty.

Hathaway sprinted back out the door, glancing to make sure Lewis had not taken the car. With relief he saw that is was still there, and then James noticed smears of blood on the bonnet, as if it had been used for support by someone with a cut on his hand. Keeping a sharp eye out for other bloody signs, James tracked Lewis west, along an iron fence, then a stone wall, a tree, a bridge over the canal, and a gate, the last opening onto the towpath along the canal. James looked up, following the path with his eyes.

Seeing what could be a person several hundred feet beyond, Hathaway broke into a run. As he drew closer, he became certain that the dark shape he saw was, indeed, a person, walking perhaps unsteadily along the path.

He slowed but continued to narrow the gap between them. Just then, the person lurched to the side and toppled headlong into the icy water of the canal.

Hathaway added a burst of speed, tearing along the path, working his jacket off and flinging it aside as he reached the spot he was sure the person had disappeared. He stood on the wall for a moment, looking up and down, fear mounting. Finally, he spotted an arm break the surface for a half-second and then sink back down.

Without hesitation, James jumped into the dark water. The chilling jolt knocked the air out of his lungs and he gasped loudly. In a few short strokes, he was downstream of where he saw the arm, and he felt his rapidly numbing legs bump into something solid.

He dove down. Impossible to see anything, the water was too dark and muddy. But his hands found what felt like an arm, and he pulled it to the surface. Then he found the head and took a firm, cross-chest hold of the person, and kicked hard, propelling them both to the edge. Here he could stand, though the muck plucked at his shoes. He turned the man's head—for all he could tell in his rush was that it was a man—and breathed three quick breaths into the man's mouth. Suddenly, the lifeless form became animated, sputtering, coughing, and flailing his arms. James found himself looking into the bleary eyes of his boss.

Hathaway drew them back upstream to a ladder and helped Lewis as he struggled out of the water. Then James collected his jacket and wrapped it around the shivering man. Without realizing that he himself was also shivering, Hathaway pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and punched 999. "Ambulance."

As they sat waiting, shivering uncontrollably, Lewis looked at Hathaway with gratitude shining in his eyes.

"Kiss us again, Jim, and we'll clock ya."

James couldn't help but laugh. "Believe me, I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't bathed first there, Sir." But then he grew serious.

"Sir, what was that little walk down the towpath about? Tell me honestly—did you plan to take that swim?" He hated to be so to-the-point, but felt that the moment was his best shot at the truth.

"What—that I was trying to top meself?"

Hathaway didn't answer.

"Ohh, I guess it would have looked that way, wouldn't it? No, I just lost me balance. A bit unsteady, for some reason, y'know."

"But why were you there, Sir? If you care to tell me, that is," he qualified.

Lewis sighed as deeply as he could through his chattering teeth. "I . . ." He sighed and started again. "I thought I saw her. Tried to follow her." Silent a while. Then, very quietly, "I was hallucinating, I expect. Wouldn't be the first time."


	7. Chapter 7

When they were done at the Radcliffe, having been checked over and Lewis's hand having been patched up, Lewis borrowed James's phone to call Lyn. He wished her happy Christmas and assured her he was fine. That was true for the moment anyway, even if it gave the false impression that he had been fine all along. He also told her he had turned off his phones to ensure a nice lie-in, and had forgotten they were off. This was pretty much complete fabrication, but he didn't want her to feel guilty about having had to work through the holiday.

James placed a quick call to Laura. "Hi, it's me. Just thought you might want to know Lewis is fine. He, um, let me in no problem and I think his mood is improving."

Lewis was watching James intently to see just how he framed the situation.

"What do you mean, 'fine'? He's sober? or drunk but not dangerous? You're being purposely vague, James, I know when you're being evasive." She was certain James was deliberately concealing something unpleasant.

"Well, at this point, he's acting pretty sober, though I wouldn't put him behind a wheel. And he's already made a funny so he's not totally doom and gloom. Do you want to talk to him?"

Lewis was shaking his head.

"Yes, I'd feel better if I could." Hathaway handed the phone off to Lewis.

"Happy Christmas, Laura. If you scold me, I'll hang up."

That made her smile. It seemed James was right. "Happy Christmas, Robbie. You sound cheerier than I expected."

"Well, you're just too pessimistic. I can hold me own head above water, y'know." This drew a loud snort from James. Just then, the hospital pager called for a Dr. Singh to go to the sixth floor. Twice.

Laura's end of the phone was ominously silent. Finally,

"So, just what are you two doing at the Radcliffe if you're so 'fine'?"

"Um . . . I, uh, fell in the canal. James helped us out. They're just checking for hypothermia. But we're fine, really."

"But you weren't going to tell me that? Or you just forgot?"

"I was afraid you'd come to the wrong conclusion. It was just an accident. Really."

"I'll have to take your word for it, I'm sure James will back up your story whether it's true or not. I'm glad to hear you're safe Robbie," she added more quietly. Then, "Put James back on a second, okay? Bye."

Lewis handed the phone back to Hathaway. "Yeah, it's me."

"I know you both well enough to tell you're covering for each other. This wasn't just an _accident_ accident, was it?"

"You do know us pretty well."

"Are you staying with him?"

"Yeah, I think so. Haven't gotten that far yet." Lewis was looking at him closely.

"Okay, I'll call Kershaw so he doesn't come 'round tomorrow. Tea, only, James! And water. He's bound to be dehydrated. And make sure he eats something solid."

"Yes'm." James answered in a way that could be interpreted as either "Yes, ma'am," or "Yes, Mum."

Laura frowned a little. "Seriously, James! He's very good at faking 'fine,' okay? Years of practice under grueling conditions. Especially watch it if he's being funny. Don't let him out of your sight until you're absolutely certain. Better yet, don't let him out of your sight until I sign off on it, personally, okay?"

"Laura!" James turned away from Lewis a bit and said very quietly, "I care about him, too, you know."

* * *

The two men headed for the hospital exit. Hathaway noticed Lewis still a bit wobbly on his legs. Not as sober as he had appeared.

"Share a taxi?" James recognized Lewis's question as code for, _So what happens now?_

"Sure." A pause. "Well, I thought I'd come by for a little Christmas cheer, if that's alright."

"Ah, no, James. You get on home. I'll be okay, if that's what you're thinking. Besides, I don't expect the place is, uh, presentable right now."

"No, Sir, it's not. That's why I thought I'd give you a hand with cleaning up."

"How do you . . . What, you were in there while I was out?"

_Wow_, Hathaway thought. _Brandy sure makes him defensive. Almost mean. He's such a happy drunk when it's beer._

"I came to see you. The door was unlocked and your car was there. You didn't answer. I was worried, okay?"

Hathaway tried to soften the harshness of his clipped tone. "I came in because I thought you might be in trouble. When I found you were gone, I traced your bloody handprints down to the canal. How else do you think I happened to be there when you fell in?"

Lewis was quiet, almost visibly retreating from his uncalled-for anger. The man had saved his life. He managed an apologetic look.

"Then it wasn't your tingling Spider Sense?"

James smiled, shaking his head. "Most certainly _not_."


	8. Chapter 8

They worked for a couple of hours on the putrid mess that Lewis's home had become during the week, sweeping up broken glass, mopping the floors, scrubbing spots on the rug, wiping down the counters. Hathaway made a point of stopping to fix tea, leaving Lewis with the job of cleaning the bath and toilet, by far the worst area.

With a final spray of air freshener, the place was habitable again, and they sat down to the meal James had managed from the meager food supplies. James did not consider the cardboard-and-plastic "meals" in the freezer to be edible, but the bread, cheese, pickle, and apples he found were more than sufficient for the two of them.

Lewis was ravenous, and dug in appreciatively. "I should have you cook for me more often, Sergeant."

They ate in silence for a while. Finally, James spoke.

"So . . . you planned this." It was a statement, rather than a question.

"Well, I didn't plan on going for a walk and taking a swim, if that's what you mean."

"You know what I mean. You deliberately set about spending the holidays pissed out of consciousness."

Lewis's eyes hardened as he fought the instinct to get defensive. "I just wanted it to be over. If I could have just slept for a week straight, I would have. Blacking out for a week was the next best thing."

James stared at the table for a while. Then his eyes snapped up to meet Lewis's.

"Best for you, maybe. I don't suppose you ever gave a thought about how selfish—self-indulgent—you were being, did you? There are people who care for you, Sir, if you'd only look outside yourself for a moment. People who'd be happy to be with you and help you through this and all. But noooo, you have to do it all yourself, forget everybody else, and just wallow in your self-pity. What you did here, this getting drunk to avoid your pain, this was _weak_. I've never considered you a weak man, but this was nothing but pure cowardice."

Lewis stared at him, stunned.

_God_, prayed Hathaway, _please don't let this be a huge mistake_. But James could not stop himself from continuing, even though he knew his words were shredding the man.

"Lyn. Laura. Kershaw. Me. Do you care one bit about how we feel? No, you couldn't possibly or you wouldn't have done this. You came _this_ close—" he held up his thumb and index finger, pinched together "—to _dying_ today, Sir. This close—" he jabbed his hand at him again "—to causing a world of pain to the people who love you. You know the pain I'm talking about, you know it well. It's there all the time, while you're eating, sleeping, working. Is that what you want for us?"

He suddenly softened, his energy spent. "Robbie? . . . You want us to be in as much pain as you are?"

James had finally run out of steam. He shut his eyes and bowed his head, embarrassed to find he was fighting tears.

Lewis didn't answer. Couldn't answer.

_Self-indulgent_?_ Weak_?_ Cowardly_? Hathaway was so wrong about him. If he had tried to face his demons sober, he would have ended up in the same condition but with more pain. He'd been through this alone before, and he knew from experience how it came out. James just didn't understand, _couldn't_ understand. When had James ever suffered loss and grief and guilt like Lewis's?

Lewis looked over at the man hunched in the chair across from him. Something in his pose reminded him of the time Hathaway's friend Will killed himself and of the overwhelming emotions James had suffered then. Suffered alone, as it was, because Lewis had thrown a big wall up between them. James could have used a friend then. All that grief and guilt.

Lewis swallowed hard. Brick by brick, he began dismantling the wall he had built this time. It was always so much easier to put them up than take them down, he reflected.

He had miscalculated his chances for surviving the holidays. One word from him and any of them would have found a way to be there. Maybe not the whole week, but certainly whenever the demons seemed to get the upper hand. Any of them would have answered the phone in the middle of the night or accepted an unexpected visit from Lewis. He was wrong—and yes, selfish—to think the burden was his alone. Not when he had friends willing to take it up for him. Hathaway was right. He had been thinking only of himself, and not of the pain he was causing them.

The house was silent except for the ticking of the wall clock. Lewis thought of and rejected a hundred things to say.

Finally, quietly,

"Do you want to kip here tonight or should we go somewhere that smells better and has something from which you can make us breakfast tomorrow morning?"

A slow smile spread across Hathaway's face.


	9. Epilogue

Lewis, Hobson, Hathaway, and Kershaw were sitting rather quietly in the White Horse. Finally, Hobson turned pointedly to Lewis.

"Now, tell us, _honestly_, how you'll be spending New Year's Eve."

He looked from one to the other.

"I thought I'd have you lot over for champagne and a lot of noise, how would that be?"

They all smiled broadly, with exclamations of "Great!" and "Wonderful!" and "That would be fun!"

"Okay, then. Say, ten o'clock?"

"Oh, and don't wear your good clothes. I figure as long as I have some extra hands, it would be a good opportunity to get the place cleaned up a bit. Seems it's a bit of a mess after the Christmas break." He grinned at their horrified expressions.

"It's a joke! All that hard scrubbing was very therapeutic. I feel better right now than I have in a long time, at least at this time of year. Thanks to all of you. You lads are better than gold." He looked at Laura directly. "And you lass, too."

He raised his glass to them. "Here's to having friends who'll take care of you even when you think you don't want them to."

Then a unanimous, and heartfelt, "Cheers!"


End file.
